


Chicken Soup For The Slightly Damaged Soul

by TheSightlessSniper



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Actually definite OOC, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Donna is awesome, Harvey is an ass, I made up a fricking photo for this fic, M/M, Mike is sick, Not Canon Compliant, Out of Character, Suits100, possible ooc, rated for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 07:04:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11504208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSightlessSniper/pseuds/TheSightlessSniper
Summary: My contribution to the Suits100.Prompt 35: Sick Day• Pairing: Marvey - Slash or Gen• Prompter’s Note: Mike calls out sick on a day when they have serious case prep to finish. Harvey thinks he’s screwing around: goes to his apartment to chew him out, only to find him miserable with a virus that’s not the least fictitious. Bonus points if Harvey makes him homemade chicken soup because the canned stuff won’t fight an actual cold for shit.'Harvey Specter had only ever known Mike Ross to get sick on two occasions in his entire time working for him.'





	Chicken Soup For The Slightly Damaged Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, I took on a prompt. It started as a tiny little oneshot and ended up.....fuck, 25-26 pages long in my word processor with 1.5 spacing. And over 10,000 words.
> 
> Oh well. Hope you enjoy my OOC crap, and whoever gave the prompt, I really hope you enjoy if you read this!

Harvey Specter had only ever known Mike Ross to get sick on two occasions in his entire time working for him.

The first time time had been brought on himself; far too much alcohol and far too little food, and Harvey had been laughing and cracking jokes about how if Mike had been a woman, there was no way he was going to hold his hair back for him while he puked his guts up from behind a bathroom stall door.

After an extended period of silence, in which Harvey had broken into the stall to check on him, Mike had ever-so-affectionately told him to go fuck himself between the heaving.

The second time, Mike had caught something that had been passing through the office like wildfire. He’d been full of a horrendous cold and cough for a few days, but had barely left the building regardless; they’d been wading through a river of shit brought on by Hardman, and had fought through it like a champ…apart from that one incidence of Mike falling asleep face first in some of his notes, and Harvey had taken a few lighthearted jabs at him for the semi-permanent ink marks of ‘but’ imprinted above one of his eyebrows.

Mike had told him to go fuck himself for that one as well, threatening to leave expletives written across one of his suits in indelible ink before his next client meeting.

So when Donna told him he was sick, he honestly thought she was yanking his chain. ‘He hasn’t missed a day of work over sickness since he started, don’t bullshit me.’

‘He sent me a message this morning to tell you that he was heading to the doctor, and that he wouldn’t be in today. I’m guessing he sent a message instead of calling because he couldn’t speak.’

‘We’re in it up to our asses over this damn money-laundering suit Jessica threw at us, and he’s decided to take a personal day?’

‘It’s not a personal day, Harvey. He wouldn’t have called if he couldn’t come in, and like you said, he hasn’t taken time off since his grandmother died,’ Donna didn’t even look at him, continuing to type as she spoke, ‘so let him be, and put Rachel on the case. And don’t you dare go and bother him at home.’

 

He knew Donna probably regretted using the word ‘dare’ in a sentence with him, because it was that word that put him into Ray’s car, barreling over to Mike’s crappy apartment, and banging on his door with an open palm and a mind to give him a world of hell.

All words failed him the second the door swung open, because to say the very least, Mike looked like absolute shit.

The associate wavered in the doorway, the thick blanket around his shoulders loosely gripped in a shaky hand, a bundle of used tissues in the other. His eyes were bleary and bloodshot from lack of sleep, and it seemed that even as he stood there, he couldn’t stop sniffling.

And it was painfully clear why Mike hadn’t come in the second he opened his mouth. ‘I just got back from the doctor. I’ve got tonsillitis, some virus thing that hits your nose, throat, and chest at the same time, and an ear infection.’ The man’s voice was barely above a whisper, crackly and wheezy as he struggled to draw breath.

Concealing his increasing guilt, Harvey stepped through the door and closed it behind him. ‘I came to see how you were.’

‘You’d have to actually care for me for that, Harvey. You came to see if I was screwing around.’

Harvey took more offence to that first suggestion than he would have liked to admit. It was never that he didn’t care, and Mike should have known that. He showed he cared through jokes and making fun of the people he loved.

And he made fun of nobody, not even Louis, more than he made fun of Mike.

Turning back to him, Harvey grabbed Mike by the shoulders and turned him towards the couch. ‘Should you even be talking with your throat in that state?’

‘No, but how else can I talk shit back to you without my voice?’

‘Give me the finger?’

‘What am I, twelve?’

‘Coming from the guy who was going to piss in Louis’ office as revenge a little while ago. And who likes cheese in the crust.’

‘That’s not childish. Animals do that to mark their territory. And cheesy crusts are awesome.’

‘You want to mark Louis as your territory?’

‘No, I want to mark Louis’s office as my territory while pissing him off as much as humanly possible.’

Harvey let a chuckle escape, but the smile that had been growing quickly turned into a frown. He stared at Mike as he tore into a box of painkillers, knocking back two before chasing it with antibiotics the doctor must have prescribed for the infection. ‘Have you eaten?’

 

When Harvey returned to the apartment a little later, a bag of fresh groceries in hand with the intention of making sure his employee didn’t starve while he was sick, Mike was dead to the world.

The associate was half-curled up in his blanket across the aged cushions, a pillow he’d obviously dragged from his bed in his arms. While unsure of what Mike normally sounded like when sleeping, he assumed that the rough snores coming from under the veil of fabric were being considerably worsened by the multitude of illnesses Mike had managed to contract at the same time.

Ignoring the noise, Harvey turned to the stove. When Mike had cleaned it last, he couldn’t say; starchy brown watermarks from a pan of pasta that had boiled over were caked over the front two hobs, while the rest had red, brown, and green flecks from what he assumed was a combination of marinara sauce, bolognese, and maybe some kind of herbs, or Thai curry he’d reheated. The stove, like the rest of the apartment, had seen better days, and a pang of something—pity, maybe—rang through Harvey like a gong. _What would Edith have thought of your apartment, Mike?_

 

Mike awoke with a jolt half an hour later, and he awoke to delicious smell of sustenance.

Not ten seconds after the associate opened his eyes, there was a bowl in front of him, filled to the brim with a steaming red liquid flecked with green and croutons floating on top.

Harvey sank down in the seat next to him, immediately staring down at his phone. ‘Tomato and basil soup. There’s more in the pot on the stove, and if you want something a little spicy, there’s chilli chicken noodle soup in a tub in the fridge. The only thing you had besides crackers, a half-eaten bag of soggy pretzels, and stale potato chips was a shitty can of chicken soup from 2008 that’s more sodium and MSG than than chicken, so I made you enough for the next few days.’

‘Holy shit, Harvey, how long was I out?’ he croaked, blinking blearily from the bowl to his boss.

‘About an hour, hour-and-a-half. Eat while it’s still hot.’

‘The canned stuff would have done.’

‘The canned stuff wouldn’t have helped with shit, and it’s in the garbage now, so unless you’re going to lick the salty, weak, chicken-flavour crap off the inside of your trashcan, I suggest you shut up and eat your damn soup before I feed it to you spoon by spoon like a little kid.’

When alone together, he and Harvey usually had a multitude of things to say to each other; Mike would say something, Harvey would ridicule him, and then Mike would come back with some movie quote that Harvey would reply to with one equally as iconic.

Nothing. Harvey stared down at his phone, tapping away as he answered an email. Mike overheard a few snippets from a voicemail he listened to—Donna rearranging several of his meetings to the end of the week, and telling him to be nice to Mike while he was sick—but aside from that, the only sounds in the room were the whirring coming from the refrigerator, and the occasional slurp as he tried to eat what had been made for him.

And he made the utmost effort, because the soup was _insanely_ good.

Harvey’s face was its usual smug self as he shakily placed the empty bowl back down, but even through the haze of sickness, he could still see that slight hint of satisfaction he’d enjoyed the food below the surface.

The other man quirked an eyebrow. ‘Good?’

‘Mm. You can actually cook.’

‘People assume I can’t because I don’t do it often.’ Harvey placed his phone into his pocket and turned to him properly. ‘I can cook, I can pick a great scotch, I look amazing in a suit—‘

‘I’m swooning at your appeal. Did you turn the thermostat down while I was asleep? It’s freezing in here.’

His boss frowned, and before he could voice a protest, Harvey’s cool hand was being pressed to his forehead. ‘It’s not cold. You’re burning up. Do you have a thermometer?’

Batting the hand away, he let his head loll back onto the couch headrest, the pulses of another headache beating behind his temple. ‘Bathroom cupboard. Harvey—‘ He was cut off suddenly by a thin stick being shoved between his lips, then shuddered as a damp cloth was placed over his forehead. ‘Cold—‘

‘You’ve got a fever of 103.7. Keep that on your head. We need to get your temperature back down.’

‘I’m not that bad, I just—‘ Mike tried to sit up, but his head gave a harder throb, and he just ended up groaning instead.

Harvey stared him down. ‘Mike, don’t argue, just sit there with that on your head and save your damn voice.’

He didn’t have the energy to protest, and after a few minutes, sleep overtook him again.

 

When Harvey had been sick as a little kid, his father had always done his best to take the day to look after him.

He could remember the man vividly being there, tucking him up in his little bed before climbing on next to him, and watching movies he shouldn’t have been seeing yet—his father had been on the receiving end of a tirade of screaming from Harvey’s mother for some of the bloody, violent action flicks—while running a cool cloth over his forehead until his temperature came down. When he’d finally feel well enough to eat, he’d cook him soup and grilled cheese sandwiches to get his strength back up.

Staring across at Mike, he felt a wonted wave of mixed emotion. He’d been a mentor to him for a long time, feeling more like a surrogate father figure than a friend for a little while at the beginning. Then when they’d faced the disasters they’d had—Hardman, Jessica finding out about Mike’s lack of qualification, Mike’s beloved grandmother dying—they’d become a little closer. Louis had always made inappropriate comments about Mike being like his boyfriend, or his prom date—and on one particularly drunken occasion where too many McCallans too early in the evening had been involved, his rent-boy—and while the joke in all its variants had gotten old quick, the man wasn’t all that far off the mark; in recent months—around the time of Hardman coming in and sticking his foot back in the door—Mike had started inexplicably creeping into his dreams, wearing less and less clothing, and doing more and more inappropriate things.

He shuddered as the most recent few ones went through his head; Mike on his back on the bed below him, hands grappling for the headboard. Mike begging him not to stop as he grasped at his shoulders and they moved hot and heavy in perfect harmony up against the wall of one of the Pearson Hardman elevators. Mike turning the tables on him and bending him over his desk in his office, taking him where anyone in the office could see them through the invisible barrier of the glass walls.

Harvey sighed. He really had to get laid. But it was getting increasingly difficult to sate his needs when half his thoughts were about work, and the rest were too on Mike to think about finding a booty call, or calling up Scottie for a throw-down. Even then, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to.

_Stupid fucking pineapple_.

Mike groaned next to him, face screwing up in his sleep. _He dropped back off so quickly…maybe I need to call a doctor. Or maybe the fever will back down on its own, and I’m just being paranoid about my crush being sick—associate. Not crush. You’re not a ten-year-old girl, Specter_.

He was going to have to work on that.

Mike groaned again, and Harvey touched his hand to the cloth. It wasn’t cool anymore, and even through the thick terrycloth flannel, he could feel the pulse of heat radiating off of his employee’s forehead. The guy was a walking hot-plate.

Pulling the rag away, Harvey hesitantly stroked the backs of his fingers over the damp, heated skin. ‘Come on, Mike.’ _Get better for me_.

 

Mike slept until twelve before he awoke again, and this time Harvey was really worried.

His associate pushed away the cloth and tried to stand, swaying before crashing back onto the cushions. ‘Whoa, shit.’

‘Mike, you okay?’

‘The room is kind of…spinning right now.’

Steadying him with his arm, Harvey frowned and touched his palm to Mike’s forehead again, wincing at the warmth. ‘Let me check your temperature again.’

Mike’s temperature hadn’t gone down. It had gone up. To 104.2.

Dropping the object on the couch, Harvey hooked Mike’s arm around his shoulders and lifted him to his feet. ‘You’re still burning up, and it’s getting worse.’

‘Nghh…not so fast,’ came the protest, but the voice behind it was croaky and flaked out near the end.

He didn’t even try to escape the hold as Harvey half-dragged him into his bathroom. Kicking the toilet lid down, he pushed Mike onto it and started peeling away his t-shirt. ‘You can be pissed at me for this all you like, but I’ve got to get your fever down.’

‘Hey, leave it—‘ the associate weakly shoved at his hands, confused, ‘Harvey—‘

‘Mike, seriously, I need to get you into a cold bath and cool you down, and to do that, I need to take your shirt off. You okay with that?’

‘I’m fine…leave it—‘

‘Mike, don’t make me cut it off you.’

Unfocused eyes hazily blinked up into his, and for a second—sickness be damned—Harvey wanted nothing more than to just kiss his burning forehead and tell him he was going to be okay.

His associate sighed and weakly lifted his arms, relenting. Harvey tugged the sweat-damp cotton over his head, then turned to the tub.

The bath didn’t take too long to fill up; the water pressure wasn’t the best, but the cold tap seemed to output a lot more than the hot one did, and that was the more important one in any case. He turned back to Mike, swallowing thickly. Mike had drifted back off where he sat, arm leaning against the sink and forehead resting on it precariously.

Hooking his hand under his associate’s bicep, he gently shook him awake. ‘Mike, I need to get you in the tub. You okay for me to take off your sweats?’

‘Mnhh…you’re lucky I’m wearing underwear.’

At least his sense of humour wasn’t as lacking as his health. Concealing the smile that wanted to blossom, he got the other to his feet again. Then, taking care to feel for and hold up the waistband of the black boxers beneath, he pushed the sweatpants away.

Mike called him at least seven different expletives under his breath and another four out loud as he helped him into the water. ‘Fu-uck it’s so c-c-c-cold.’

‘It’ll get easier.’

‘You’re s-such an a-asshole.’

_I came here to yell at you. I know._ With Mike safely propped up, arms over the side of the tub to stop him from falling down, Harvey slipped down to the chilly tiled floor, back against the side of the bath. ‘The money-laundering case has turned into a real bitch.’

‘I f-f-found another dodgy account conn-n-nected to it last night.’

Harvey half-smiled. ‘How the hell did they hide that one?’

‘Under—fuckthisissofuckingcold—under a different name. Rus-ssian connection, Cayman Islands acc-count. L-l-lots of t-transactions—fuck, how long do I have to stay in this g-goddamn thing?’

‘Until you cool down. You were seriously burning up.’ He peered over his shoulder, coming face-to-face with bright blue eyes. ‘104.2, Mike.

Mike coughed a little, then swallowed. ‘Not as b-bad as it could be. Brain damage is a risk abo-ove 108.’

‘I’m not letting it get that high. Which is why you’re staying in that tub until it comes down.’

His associate opened his mouth, but no protest came. It quickly fell shut again.

A few scattered conversations about work later, Harvey left the room, returning with the thermometer in hand. ‘You should be a little cooler now, but just to be sure…’ he gestured to Mike’s mouth.

The man seemed a little more coherent, more focused as grabbed the implement and shoved it under his tongue. ‘Who knew I’d be lucky enough to have Harvey Reginald Specter as my nurse?’

He smirked. ‘Don’t get any ideas about the outfit. Scrubs aren’t my thing.’

‘What about a little blue dress? Heels? White hat with an apron? No?’

‘Close your mouth or you won’t get an accurate reading.’

‘I’m just messing around. What about sponge baths?’

‘What about a urinary catheter? Feel like having me shove one of those up your dick?’

Mike winced. ‘Ugh, you had to make it weird.’

‘ _You_ made it weird. Save what little of your voice you have left, dipshit,’ Harvey shot back sharply. In truth, he was just trying to fight back the explicit images forming; Mike naked, moaning at the rough touch of a soaped-up sponge running down him, was the most prominent. _Thank fuck he didn’t suggest a prostate exam. I was cutting it close with that fucking catheter joke—why did you have to bring up his dick, you idiot?_

Oblivious to his thoughts, Mike pulled the thermometer out and squinted at it. ‘The writing on this is tiny…102.7.’

‘Not perfect, but a lot better than 104. You feeling a little better?’

‘Room’s not doing a Viennese Waltz anymore,’ Mike shrugged, still shivering, ‘so can I get out now?’

 

He was really starting to wonder whether his fever was a lot worse than he thought, and that he’d actually begun hallucinating.

Harvey was being…nice. Absurdly nice, by his standards. Cooking him soup? Being concerned about his fever shooting up? Harvey Specter did do concerned, he knew that, but this was worthy of an episode of “The Twilight Zone”. And not even one of the more moderately weird episodes; one of the _really_ weird ones where astronauts ended up on a planet of human mannequins or something.

A hand appeared in front of his face, and he grabbed it gratefully. Harvey helped to haul him out of the bath, then ducked out of the room before swiftly returning and chucking clothes at him. ‘Fresh t-shirt, pants, and boxers.’

‘You went through my underwear drawer?’ That thought was both embarrassing, and oddly titillating.

Harvey shrugged at him. ’It was shocking. Not a real pair of underwear in sight.’

‘…what?’

‘Cheap crap. Probably from that dollar store two blocks from here. The money I pay you and you’re still wearing knock-off Ralph Laurens under your suit…’

Rolling his eyes, Mike turned away, picking up the socks that had rolled over his shoulder. ‘They still fit my ass, and they still do the job of keeping my junk covered where appropriate. What do you want from me—a hundred-dollars-a-pair which very few people will actually get to see?’

‘At least something better than scratchy cotton. Bamboo is functional and softer. Not like these which must feel like Louis’ cat scratching your ass.’

‘You know what that feels like from experience, or…’ he peered back over his shoulder and shot Harvey a weak grin. ‘Get out of here so I can get dressed, or you’re going to get a hell of an eyeful.’

When he reappeared from behind the veil of the bathroom door, Harvey was back in his kitchen, at the stove once more and pouring the contents of a tub—the aforementioned chicken noodle soup—into a clean pan.

It was startling. Harvey Specter, best Closer in Manhattan—nay, New York City—was in his kitchen, cooking for him. It was bizarre. It was domestic, and unexpected, and so unlike his boss that he had to wonder if he had still yet to awaken from a strange fever dream and find himself alone with a million-and-one messages telling him to get the hell into the office regardless of his physical state.

Unwarranted, his stomach gave a hopeful flutter. _He does care, doesn’t he?_

Clearing his throat, he disturbed the silence. ‘I had no idea you were that much of a housewife, Harvey.’

The other man visibly tensed, then relaxed. ‘I just want you to get better so you can get your ass back in the office and do what needs to be done.’

‘I’ll bet you say that to all your fraudulent associates.’

‘Only you. And that’s because you’re the only fraudulent associate I’ve ever had.’

‘I’m the only associate you’ve ever had.’

‘You’re talking an awful lot for a man with a chest infection.’

Mike shrugged. ‘I get to annoy you, so the pain and difficulty breathing is worth it.’

As Harvey served up the soup, they fell into companionable silence once more. Mike slurped the liquid meal out a mug the size of a small bucket, watching some rerun of a bad sitcom on the small television, while Harvey skimmed through one of the books he’d plucked off the shelf, sipping from his own mug.

His boss turned to him, gesturing to the pages. ‘You’re a fan of photography.’

‘I am…but those were Grammy’s collection of books. She was a really big fan of some of the big Magnum Photos names; Parr, Capa, Cartier-Bresson. You asked her for the name of a photographer who took a photo, she could probably tell you.’

‘Really?’

Mike nodded, swallowing thickly. ‘We were at this flea market when I was a kid…when she was still well. There was this old guy selling all this photography equipment on the cheap. These weren’t your run-of-the-mill stuff either—one of the Leica bodies he was getting rid of was pre-World War Two and it still worked, and a few of the lenses was so old you’d have had to get them checked for radiation before putting them up to your eye.

‘So we’re talking to the guy, and he keeps looking at me, and then back to one of the cameras. Then just as we’re about to walk away, he picks up this little rangefinder and hands it to me, and then gives Grammy a twenty-dollar bill and tells her to buy me some 35mm for it. Gave it to me, free of charge.’

Mike stood up, mug still in hand, and wandered up next to Harvey to reach for the shelf above. Fumbling around, he half-smiled when he felt the slightly dust metal under his fingertips, and pulled it down from its resting place. The old Canonet had seen better days—it was probably second-hand or maybe even third-hand when the old man’s grandson had owned it—but it had still worked beautifully for years up until the shutter had decided to stick and he hadn’t had the money to spare to get it fixed.

He stared down at the camera wistfully. ‘The old guy’s grandson died of leukaemia a few years before. Belonged to him. Apparently I looked enough like him to make him think that I was him for a second.’

‘You took up photography after that?’

‘Yeah. I mean, I’d always liked photography before that. But the minute I was holding it, it felt like it fit in my hand, and that it was a hobby I wanted to seriously continue with.’

He looked back up into Harvey’s face, and was surprised at what he saw. His brow was relaxed, eyes soft, and there wasn’t a trace of his usual smirk there.

Harvey cleared his throat, eyes darting back to the book in hand. ‘You still take many photos?’

He shook his head. ‘Being a fake lawyer takes up a lot of time these days. I took photos in high school, and there were a few stoned photoshoots with Trevor and an iPhone when I was still a bike messenger. Haven’t had the time to get a new camera, and I’m not all that good anyway.’

Harvey gestured to the album that had been sat next to the book he was holding. ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’

 

Harvey didn’t really know much about art. He had a few things of significance hanging in his office. He appreciated a good image when he saw it. but he didn’t know much.

He did know, however, that Mike’s photography was _something_.

He stared down at the high school photography sketchbook in his hands. The techniques described and explained, the names of the photographers that Mike had referenced being influenced by, the stuff about the photographers themselves; they were all completely lost on him. But the images were phenomenal.

He flipped the page, looking down at the faded print that had been stuck down. It was the Manhattan skyline, which shouldn’t have been anything special, but that was only a small part of the image; teenaged Mike Ross had captured a rooftop party taking place a few buildings away from where he’d been stood, making him feel a bit like a voyeur as he took in each detail; a young man leaning against a wall with tears streaming down his face, two women kissing on the fire escape with a somehow still-firm grip their colourful dixie cups, a blur of the people dancing in a group around garish decorations and fairy lights in the background in time to a beat he would never be able to hear.

It was a little disturbing how good Mike was; the single image had made him feel an unsettling level of deep-seated emotion for people he had never met and probably would never meet.

Harvey glanced to his side, where Mike had drawn his legs up and was leaning his chin on his arms, face flushed. ‘They’re not great, I know.’

‘They’re amazing.’ He hadn’t meant to sound quite so breathless.

The blush grew deeper. ‘I always wanted to be a lawyer. But for a little while there, I did toy with the idea of going into photography.’

‘What kept you from doing it?’

A sad look settled in his eyes. ‘My photography teacher. He didn’t like me much to begin with, but it got worse when he realised that everyone in our class thought my images were better than his.’

‘Those who can’t do, teach, right?’ he shot back, heart fluttering when Mike coughed out a rough chuckle. ‘You must have been running circles around him.’

‘He refused to let me take the images for the yearbook, and stopped me from getting the school journalist photographer position. I lost interest in photography for a little while, and just concentrated on law again.’

They fell quiet, Mike staring down at the old photo and him staring at Mike. For a moment, Harvey wished that he was the talented photographer; the other looked fondly down at the image like it was reminding him of something good that happened, and it was that little look—the gentle eyes, the minute smile curling his lip, the shyness that had seemingly come over him in his ill and weakened state—that had him wanting to physically capture the expression so he could look at it again and again.

His associate looked up to him, and immediately he looked down to the book and turned a few pages. ‘Your teacher was an idiot. You could have been flying around the world taking photos of cityscapes and street life for a living.’ _But then I would have probably never met you._

Mike shrugged. ‘I get to take them purely for pleasure now. Means I enjoy it a lot more when I do have the time. Doing it for classes felt a lot more like work, wasn’t as fun.’

‘Next time my brother comes into town, I’ll have to see if he’ll get together for a family portrait. Would you take it?’

Surprise overtook the younger man’s face. ‘You’d…want me to do that?’

‘Sure. If you’re up to the task, that is.’

‘Yeah…thanks, Harvey.’

 

Before Harvey could really realise that much time was passing, he had spent the entire day at Mike’s apartment, and it was slowly creeping towards six PM.

While he wasn’t anywhere near recovered yet, he looked a little better at least. Another check of his temperature had shown it was staying static at around 102, and he’d devoured another mugful of soup while watching Star Trek reruns with Harvey that afternoon, so at least his appetite wasn’t too affected by the cacophony of viruses and infections he was temporarily harbouring.

Mike passed a hot cup of coffee to him as he sat back down. If he sat a little bit closer than before, only Harvey noticed. ‘I still can’t believe you’re a Trekkie.’

He faux-scowled in his associate’s direction. ‘Give me a break. Kirk is the man.’

‘Aye aye, Captain. What did you think of Firefly?’

‘I liked it. But I wasn’t in love with it. And it was harder to watch when I realised how much Zoe looked like Jessica.’

‘…holy shit, she totally does.’ They both chuckled. ‘I had a bad crush on Kaylee. She was so pretty, and sunny…’

He couldn’t deny that reminder stung; Mike was straight. Into girls. Off-limits. Nevertheless, he continued. ‘Was she shiny?’

‘Hah, yeah. So was Saffron. And M—‘ the sentence promptly cut off. Mike’s mouth slammed shut, face turning pink.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You weren’t about to say you had a crush on Zoe too, were you?’

‘Well…ugh—‘ he hid his face for a moment, cheeks turning redder than the soup he’d eaten earlier that day, ‘promise you won’t judge me for this.’

‘For what?’

‘I crushed pretty hard on Malcolm Reynolds.’

Someone could have come up to Harvey at that very moment and smashed him in the face with a brick, and he wouldn’t have noticed over the blood pounding in his ears and the sudden difficulty breathing, and the sudden wave of hope-induced nausea bubbling in his stomach.

Mike ran a hand through his hair and down his face. ‘I thought it was just the character humour at first. But then the episode where he ends up butt-ass naked at the end came around…and that was my very late sexual awakening that told me that I swung two ways instead of one.’

‘You’re bisexual.’

‘…Yeah.’

When he didn’t say anything, Mike’s jaw stiffened, and he bit nervously into his lip. ‘Sorry. If it bothers you, I can work from my desk in the bullpen more if it makes you uncomfortable, or you can foist me off on Louis for a while, or whatever.’  
_Now or never, Specter_.

Harvey twisted a little, a hand shooting out to rest on Mike’s forearm. ‘No no no, Mike. God no—don’t _ever_ apologise for that. And…it would be pretty hypocritical if it did have a problem with it, considering.’

Mike’s eyes narrowed, then widened in comprehension. ‘You too?’

‘More women than men, but yeah.’

‘Same as me.’

‘Yeah.’

For a few moments, they sat there, staring at each other in bewilderment. Mike’s eyes flicked from one of his to the other, as if he was searching for signs that he was being screwed with. Meanwhile, Harvey tried to not let his gaze wander down to Mike’s lips, whilst mentally attempting to calculate exactly how likely it was that he could be both bisexual, and feel the same way as he did.

His results weren’t coming up favourably. _Seriously, you can’t expect to be that fortunate_.

A clap of thunder, loud and unexpected, broke the reverie. Mike jolted, turning to the windows, and it was only then that Harvey realised that it was raining, and it was raining hard; the glass sounded like was threatening to shatter underneath the heavy pelt.

A flash of lightning darted across the sky, and Harvey shook his head. ‘Damn. It got stormy fast.’

‘Either that, or someone pissed off Thor,’ Mike croaked. ‘You’re welcome to stay until it lets up, if you want.’

He could have argued. He could have called up Ray later; the man was always in the neighbourhood.

Instead, he nodded. ‘Sure. Thanks.’

 

They made it to eight PM before, out of nowhere, Mike started shivering again.

Harvey reached for the thermometer, sticking it in his associate’s mouth, then looked at the rising numbers creeping up the metal until they reached their peak.

104.9. ‘Shit, this is higher than before. I’m sticking you in another cold bath—‘

‘Nnn…not again. It’s too cold.’

‘Mike, your temp is through the roof.’ _Let me take care of you._

This time when he tried to drag Mike into the bathroom, the other felt like a dead weight.

A fever-hot forehead rolled against his shoulder. ‘Not again.’

‘Mike, please, this fever is getting bad again.’

‘Cold.’ That was the last word he got out of him. Mike’s head dropped, eyes rolling shut, and suddenly he was supporting his associate’s entire body weight.

In any other circumstances—for any other person—Harvey would have called a doctor to deal with the problem and been done with it. But Mike was not any other person, and a doctor wasn’t going to get there quick enough for him to be satisfied. And a bath was going to take too long to run.

He heaved Mike into the tub once more, resting his head under the shower side and propping him up so he wouldn’t slide down, then quickly divested himself of everything but his underwear. This time, when Mike realised what was going on, there really was going to be a chance of getting punched in the face, but he shoved the thought aside as he climbed in and dragged the other into the support of his hold.

The cold water that rained down the second he turned the tap in the shower stung. It was freezing cold and harsh, soaking through his thin cotton t-shirt in seconds, and out of heat-seeking instinct, he curled closer around Mike’s burning torso. ‘Oh fu-fuck you weren’t k-k-k-kidding.’

Mike stirred, wincing and whining as the spray hit him. ‘C-c-c-cold—‘

‘I know. I know.’

They sat there in complete silence, only the rush of the water pouring onto them echoing through the small room.

 

As his temperature seemed to come down a little, Mike curled into Harvey as they both shivered, trying to push back the embarrassment that was blazing through him as he processed exactly what was going on. _I’m in a freezing cold shower after passing out on my boss, and I’m lying between his thighs. What the fuck…holy shit he hasn’t got a six pack. He’s got an entire fucking party pack under there—who has muscles like that outside of the Olympics?!_

It was just typical that this had happened to him. Ever since that night after his Grandmother had died, when he and Harvey had gotten horrendously—hilariously—stoned, it had become a little difficult to look at Harvey at times. Sometimes it would be okay; he could pour himself and Harvey a glass of expensive scotch from that little table in his office, and feel only a hint of something under the surface that he could cover cleanly with rapid-fire witticisms and movie quotes. But then there were other times, when heated debate bounced between them, or they were a united front against someone working against them, that Mike could actually envision something going down inside the glass-walled bubble of Harvey’s corner office. He could imagine shoving Harvey down into the cushions of his couch, tugging his thighs apart and pushing into him. He’d pictured the other pressing him up against the glass, lifting him up and leaving biting kisses marking his throat and chest as he drifted down to his stomach. He imagined wandering hands, and filthy words, and orgasms bringing them both to the brink of passing out on the stylish couch that furnished Harvey’s perfectly impersonal living room, their clothes the rugs that decorated the expensive wood floors.

He sighed shakily. These fantasies had been hard enough to deal with when he’d thought Harvey was straight. _It’s just his orientation; he can’t change that_ , he’d told himself. But now he knew the truth, the thought of the other taking another man as a lover—and maybe, just maybe, settling down with a man in the most distant of distant futures—stung as hard like the harsh droplets pelting his skin. Clearly now, it wasn’t that he wasn’t interested in men. It was just he wasn’t interested in him.

Not for the first time, Mike wished his brain would just switch off, or at least just give him a fucking break.

Harvey’s arm tightened around him, body shifting. ‘Your tub is incredibly uncomfortable. My ass is numb on one side and only half-there on the other.’

‘I’ll bet yours is practically a hot-tub with jets, right?’

‘Yeah, but it’s also designed to fit more than one person.’

Mike twisted a little. He was still a little dizzy, but the cold water seemed to be helping to sober him out of the fever and his less innocent thoughts. ‘If you want to get out, you can. I think I can hold myself up now.’

Harvey shook his head. ‘No way. You passed out on my shoulder. Not taking the concussion risk if it happens again.’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Shut up, Mike. I’m not moving.’

‘You know you’re gonna get sick too.’

‘I never get sick.’

‘Famous last words. In a few days, you’ll wake up with a scratchy throat and sneezing every two seconds, and I’ll never hear the end of it at work, because Harvey Specter probably never gets sick even when he’s dying from the flu.’

‘What are you, my wife?’

In spite of the miserable bubbling in his stomach, Mike smirked weakly. ‘Well, we are in the shower together. And you did cook me lunch. And dinner. And I watched Star Trek with you all afternoon. If we’re not married, you should seriously consider proposing. I would be an awesome husband.’

‘How’s this—Mike, it’s been a long time coming, but I think I’m finally ready to commit…Mike Ross, will you be my associate?’

‘Ugh, worst proposal ever. I’m already your associate, you’ve never put out, you weren’t even down on one knee, and where the hell is my goddamn ring?’

Harvey’s chest vibrated below him, a shivering chuckle bubbling out of him. ‘I’ll wrap one of the noodles out of the soup around your finger, how does that sound?’

‘And they say romance is dead.’ The words slipped out unbidden, and if they had made Harvey uncomfortable, he didn’t let it be known.

 

Mike didn’t know how long he had been asleep for, but at some point, he’d either moved, or been moved.

The last place he remembered being was in his bathtub, pressed up against his boss’s chest under a freezing cold shower, and mumbling something to him about romance. But as his eyes fluttered open, he found himself looking up at the patch of ceiling with the peeling paint that hung right over the right half of his bed. A headache pulsed inside his skull, but it was not as bad as it had been earlier that day.

He glanced around his small bedroom alcove. There was light coming through the windows, but not much; it couldn’t have been much later than five AM at very most, and the storm that had hit the previous evening had rained and blown itself out. There was a glass of water on his bedside table, with the half-empty blister-packs of painkillers and antibiotics sat right next to it, ready for him to take upon awakening…and as he rolled slightly to his left, Harvey Specter lying on the other half of his bed in nothing but a loose grey t-shirt and sweats—more specifically, his loose grey t-shirt and sweats—with the top sheet of his bedcovers loosely tugged over him for warmth.

Mike slowly rolled back to his original position, suddenly wide awake. The man he both had an increasingly serious crush on, and who would determine exactly whether he would still have a job come morning, was sleeping peacefully next to him. After having spent almost an entire day taking care of him in the throes of illness. The same man who had been in a freezing cold shower with just a few hours before.

_If Donna hears about this series of events, she’ s going to have a fucking field day with both of us_.

He looked over his boss’ face in the shallow light of the room. It was likely the only time he would ever see him in such a relaxed state, and he took the opportunity to immortalise the image within his memory while he was coherent enough to do so. Harvey’s hair was fluffed up from rubbing against the pillow, sticking up in all directions and looking like a bizarre half-halo. The usually stern brow was softened, smoothing out the stress lines and taking ten years off his appearance in an instant. His slightly parted lips were no longer pulled tight or shaped into a smirk, deep contented breaths periodically slipping from between them. The rich brown eyes he was used to were hidden, but if the fluttering of eyelashes was anything to go by, Harvey was dreaming.

Mike wondered just how cliche it was that he hoped that they were sweet.

He couldn’t sleep after waking up to that. Mike shifted carefully from below the sheets, and was almost at his bathroom door when he looked down. The t-shirt he was wearing, and the boxers, were most definitely not the soaking wet ones he would have been in the cold shower in.

Which could mean only one thing. _He undressed me. He undressed me, and redressed me—holy shit, my boss has seen me naked_.

Mike continued on into the bathroom, closing the door behind him and leaning against it to groan into his hands. _Jesus, I hope I didn’t get a boner. Did I come onto him? Fuck it, I’ll just blame everything on the fever. He can’t stay pissed at me if I blame it on that_.

He was just about finished using the bathroom when he heard the light rapping of knuckles on the door. ‘Mike? You okay in there?’

‘…I’m fine. I needed to pee. Why?’

‘Just checking you hadn’t passed out on the—‘ Harvey cut himself off, and Mike heard him clear his throat. ‘Anyway, you’re not the only one who has a bladder.’

‘I’ll be out in a sec.’

As he washed his hands, Mike blinked back at his own reflection in the mirror above the sink. His cheeks were still flushed, but a check of his temperature with the thermometer told him that the fever that had plagued him yesterday seemed to have finally broken. His eyes were a little bloodshot, but it was nothing that a few eyedrops and a rest later couldn’t fix.

His own morning breath, however, needed immediate fixing if he was going to be consciously climbing back into bed with his boss, however innocent the intentions of just sleeping might have been.

 

When the door to the bathroom opened, Harvey was sure Mike was avoiding eye contact with him.

Maybe the other thought he was out of line; they were employer and employee, and there were boundaries, possibly even more so considering his own clandestine feelings, and the distinctly un-clandestine knowledge they were both bisexual. It had been a huge risk, but he had mentally reasoned that Mike, with his stupid caring nature, would have told him to suck it up and get into bed regardless if it was actually any more comfortable than the couch.

Or maybe he’d just realised that to make sure he didn’t catch hypothermia from cold wet clothes, that Harvey had tentatively peeled away his clothes and replaced them with dry ones whilst internally exercising incredible self-restraint against the urge to kiss him senseless—or more senseless than the fever had made him already—the entire goddamn time.

And if he was being completely honest, when he’d apprehensively tugged away Mike’s underwear and exposed him in all his glory, he hadn’t been disappointed with what he’d seen; the fantasy of Mike bending him over the desk in his office had been one he’d had to swiftly squash down with thoughts of Louis mudding.

Mike passed him, stepping up to the kitchen counter. ‘Feels like I haven’t slept at all, but I’m wired. How the hell does that work?’

‘Feeling better?’

A shrug met him. Mike reached for a mug off one of the cupboard shelves. ‘A little. I think the fever broke for real this time.’

‘Not as cold?’

He nodded. ‘And a little less groggy.’

‘Your voice sounds a little better too,’ Harvey pointed out, gesturing to his throat.

‘Mm. Still hurts, though. Do you want coffee?’

‘Please.’

As Mike started putting the coffee together, Harvey ducked into the bathroom, but instead of relieving himself, he found himself glaring at himself in Mike’s mirror. _Don’t get used to this, Specter. You’re not going to be waking up to this every morning_.

And then another little voice in his head sounded straight after his own.

Specifically, Donna’s, in the sternest tone he’d ever heard from her. ‘ _I know everything, Harvey. Especially since I’m a voice in your head right now. I’ve got an all-access pass to all the recesses of your mind where you keep all those feelings you like to repress, and I can tell you now that you’re not going to be happy until you’ve taken a chance at getting him_.’

The Donna in his head was just as intolerant to his shit as the real one.

He scoffed quietly, and the in-his-head Donna continued. ‘ _You know he’s into men too, so besides the stupid office hierarchy stuff that Jessica will probably waive with the right paperwork to Human Resources and a few mini-investigations of her own anyway, the worst thing that can happen is he turns you down. And I doubt he’s petty enough to hang it over your head if he doesn’t feel the same way_.’

Raking a hand through his hair, he turned away from the mirror and to the toilet. _Damn it, Donna, do you have to be all-knowing even when you’re just a voice in my mind?_

‘ _I’m Donna. I know everything. Idiot._ ’

Bladder relieved and hands washed, Harvey exited the bathroom to the smell of coffee in the air. He breathed in deep. ‘Do you have any vanilla?’

Mike cocked an eyebrow. ‘Do I look like Donna?’

‘No. Her hair is much shinier than yours.’

‘I’ll have you know, the non-shiny, surfer-guy hair thing is in this year, and girls find it endearing on me.’

‘Those girls have no taste.’

‘You’re saying people like Rachel and Donna have no taste?’

‘The Fifth. I’m taking it.’

‘You know that’s not how it works.’ The associate threw him a tired smirk, handing him a large mug with a cat painted on the side. ‘I do have something vanilla-flavoured that could go in it, but unless you want your morning coffee to get you drunk, I’d refrain from putting vanilla-flavoured vodka in there.’

Harvey gratefully took the mug from him, sniffing the contents. ‘Vanilla-flavoured vodka. Heathen. Filter or instant?’

‘Filter. It’s some blend Rachel had me try at this foodie coffee place she went to.’

As hard as he tried to resist the pang of jealousy at the mention of the pretty, intelligent paralegal, his grip on the handle of the mug automatically tightened. ‘Sounds like she’s been a positive influence on your tastes.’

‘Maybe. I preferred the other blend we tried, though. It had cocoa beans in it, so you got a hit of bitter chocolate as well as the coffee.’ Mike leaned against the counter, breathing in the steam from his own cup but not drinking. ‘She didn’t like it as much though.’

At that, Harvey almost made a weak jab at Mike for giving in to Rachel’s tastes. He almost made a comment about Rachel not getting him like he did, but that was dangerous and petty, and territory that he would rather not stoop to delving into. Instead, he let silence settle between them, drinking their morning coffees in quiet companionship while his brain mulled over the events of the previous night.

 

At exactly six-thirty AM, Harvey’s phone rang.

‘Donna.’

Her voice rang clearly through the receiver back at him. ‘I cleared your schedule for the morning, and if you’re going to take the entire day, I can clear the afternoon too. I've delegated two of the other associates to take on the grunt work, so all of the stuff Mike proofed before he got signed off work yesterday will be copied, put into a folder, and on your desk tomorrow morning.’

‘Thanks.’

There was a pause in the conversation before Donna spoke. ‘How’s our boy wonder?’

’What makes you think I know?’

‘Because your doorman called and told me that Scottie came to yours late last night and wasn’t happy when he said you weren’t home. So either you were passed out at the Chilton with a hotter-than-hot bartender girl, or you slept on Mike’s couch to make sure he didn’t cough himself to death in his sleep. And considering that your online banking transactions show nothing to do with the Chilton or any other hotel, but there’s a charge for a grocery store not far from Mike’s apartment, I’m guessing it’s the latter.’

‘You know everything.’

‘…You’re lying. You’re at Mike’s, but you slept in his bed.’

… _Of course she knows_. ’Donna, pick your next words carefully.’

‘Harvey,’ her voice took on a concerned note, ‘did you tell him?’

His eyes darted to Mike, but the other was preoccupied, putting another pot of coffee up for them. He didn’t seem to have heard anything.

Harvey turned back to the phone. ‘…No, I didn’t. I’ll explain later.’

It took a few moments to get a reply. ‘I’ll clear your schedule for the afternoon.’

He didn’t know the meaning in her words, or whether he was imagining the strange tone, but he didn’t get to ask; Donna cut off the call without another word, leaving him stubbornly staring at his phone screen.

Mike sat down next to him, a second cup of coffee in hand for each of them. ‘What did she have to say?’

‘Just letting me know about Louis’ ranting. Apparently he kicked up a stink when he couldn’t unload more work on you yesterday,’ he lied smoothly, the masking smirk reappearing, ‘and she cleared my schedule for the day, so unless you’re opposed to binge-watching—‘

‘Which you know I’m not.’

‘Right…so, more Star Trek? Or shall we break out Firefly and get freaked out by Jessica’s mysterious doppelganger?’

‘Star Trek is fine. You really think that Kirk is the man, huh?’

‘He is!’

‘Hm, do I detect a story about your own sexual awakening, Harvey?’ Mike was clearly feeling a little bit better; the tease in his croaky voice was re-emerging full force, grin and head tilt included.

He shook his head. ‘No. That was someone else.’

‘Come on, you know mine. And it can’t be as weird as butt-naked Nathan Fillion.’

‘Are we really having this conversation?’

‘Yes. I showed you mine. Now show me yours.’

Harvey groaned, letting his head fall back onto the headrest of the couch. He really wished Mike hadn’t worded it like that. ‘Okay, but you’re not allowed to laugh at this, or I really will fire you.’

‘Can’t promise that. But I swear, I’ll do my utmost to stay as stoned-faced as Benjamin when someone’s been messing with the server settings.’ As if to make a point, Mike held out his pinkie finger. ‘Come on. Pinkie swear that I will try not to laugh my ass off.’

Harvey rolled his eyes, but returned the gesture, before turning a little to face Mike better. ‘Okay. You’ve seen Return of the Jedi—’

‘Han Solo.’

His mouth fell agape. ‘How the hell did you guess that?’

Mike shrugged, the smirk widening. ‘I prefer him to Luke too. He’s a little cocky, and gets Commander Leia, and you’d be all about a guy who gets the girl. Or guy. And Harrison Ford is Indiana Jones, so he gets bonus points for that too.’

Laughing, Harvey shook his head and reached for the remote for Mike’s blu-ray player. ‘Well, clearly we both have great taste in men.’

‘…Yeah, clearly.’

Something in Mike’s tone made him look up. The other’s confident teasing had given way, and suddenly the younger man looked almost timid under the weight of their gazes connecting. The slender throat swallowed before him, Mike’s lips parting to let out a slow breath, and the bright blue eyes flicked down to his lips, and then back up, and then away from him completely.

A traitorous sliver of hope in his heart sparked up.

 

Mike’s heart wanted to burst out of his chest like the scene out of “Alien”. He’d fucked up. One unbidden moment of weakness had drawn his eyes down to Harvey’s mouth, wondering whether he’d taste like coffee if they kissed, and he knew Harvey had seen it and figured it all out in a single second. _Shit_.

He expected Harvey to drop the remote. He was positive the other was going to shake his head, let him down sharply with a snarky comment about his emotional attachments and inappropriate feelings towards his superiors, before marching out of his apartment and confirming the end of their friendship. Who did he think he was, after all, besides a fraud with a crush on the man who held his future in the palm of his hand and who could flick it into oblivion with a single elegant finger?

The let-down never came. Harvey’s eyes widened, brow contorting upwards in disbelief…and then it relaxed, and the surprise on his face melted into something softer.

His voice matched the gentleness of his expression. ‘Mike, are…do you…’

‘…I’m sorry.’

‘No. Don’t be.’ That was all the warning he got. Harvey turned to him fully, leaning across the cushions between them, and hovered his mouth an inch over his own.

He sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. ‘Harvey?’

Harvey’s breath was hot and shuddering against his lips. He could almost taste the bitterness of the coffee, the sweetness of the sugar he’d laced it with in his exhale. _I’m waxing lyrical about coffee breath. I am so fucked._

Brown eyes blurred by proximity fixed upon his own with almost suffocating intensity. ‘Mike, tell me if I’ve got this all wrong. Tell me to stop, and I’ll never do this again.’

This couldn’t be happening. This kind of thing never happened to him. He didn’t get this lucky. And yet there it was; Harvey’s lips barely a centimetre from his own, ready and willing and wanting to be pressed to his.

And he would be damned twice before he gave up what could be a chance in a lifetime. Without breaking their near-contact, Mike blindly placed his cup on the table to his side, before sinking the freed hand into Harvey’s sleep-mussed hair and tugging him forward.

It wasn't perfect; the initial angle was off, so their noses bumped together awkwardly and hurt a little. But they were in sync in seconds, mouths opening and tongues slickly flicking at each other harmoniously. Half of Mike’s brain kept telling him to pull away— _You’re still sick, idiot! You’re going to pass it on to him!_ —but the other half sided with the butterflies beating behind his ribs like a caged prisoner, wanting more of Harvey while he could get it and not stopping until he had his fill.

If Harvey was bothered by his unwell state, the man was choosing to ignore it. Mike let himself be coaxed into sliding down the couch as the other took over the kiss, not stopping until their bodies were parallel and he could feel Harvey’s heaving chest pressed pressed to his own above him. He’d expected him to be heavier somehow—how could he not have some weight behind him with the muscles below that shirt?—but his weight was as perfectly balanced as everything else about him.

When they finally parted for air, Mike gasped against his mouth. ‘Oh my god.’

‘You have no idea how long I’ve been holding this back.’

‘Oh, I think I have some idea,’ he shot back, hand cupping the back of his boss’s neck, ‘I’ve wanted to do that since you told me about that goddamn can-opener.’

Harvey laughed breathlessly. ‘I see your can-opener, and raise you a flower-shaped pineapple slice on a stick.’

The memory flashed up in his head in an instant. _‘I love you, Harvey.’ Oh my god_. ‘Since—‘

‘Funny how someone making a slice of pineapple say “I love you” can make you start thinking about what they mean to you…and make their face appear in dreams you feel guilty about when you wake up.’

‘What did you dream about?’

The backs of Harvey’s fingers stroked down his cheek. ‘You…me. You and me. Us sleeping together. Each time it happened, I woke up feeling like some kind of pervert, but at the same time I wished I could have stayed asleep longer because I thought it was the only way I could ever have you.’

Mike let his head fall back, looking past Harvey’s head up to the ceiling with a faint smile. In spite of his sickness, he suddenly felt phenomenal; the fleeting fantasies of months past of himself and the man above him were so close to becoming a reality. It was thrilling, and terrifying.

He slipped his hand around to Harvey’s chest, pressing once firmly. ‘As much as I want to make those dreams a reality—and believe me, I want to—I’m feeling kind of weak because of this stupid infection, and I’d rather be at full capacity when we decide to get down to the really good stuff. And I’ve got some really, really good ideas for what we should do.’

‘More pineapple?’

‘Pineapple. Strawberries. Champagne. Maybe some melted chocolate and mini-marshmallows.’

‘Are we going to be having sex, or some kind of luxury, alcoholic s’mores?’

‘…both. Both is good.’

The other broke out into smile, and then pressed their lips back together again.

 

That afternoon, Harvey made it into the office for exactly seven minutes.

Dodging past Norma bumbling along the the hallway—could a person seriously get any slower when carrying absolutely nothing?—he was almost at his office door when a manicured hand yanked on the back of his collar. ‘Not so fast, Specter.’

Donna. Of course it was Donna. He swivelled on his heel to face her. ‘Yes?’

‘How’s Mike?’

‘He had a fever, but I think it broke at some point during the night because he said he’s feeling a little better.’

‘Uhuh—‘ she leaned a little closer, voice dropping to a whisper, ‘and what about all the kissing you did this morning?’

He knew that she was Donna. He knew that she somehow knew everything. But how the hell had she guessed that?

As if she had read his mind, she immediately elaborated. ‘Your lip is bruised, you look ten years younger, and fifty pounds lighter from whatever weight that came off your shoulders. So it must have been a good one, and it must have ended well because otherwise you would be in full pining-moping-mode and wouldn’t have needed your schedule cleared. And if you hadn’t noticed, you’re wearing the same thing you were yesterday. Was it yourself or the other involved party who instigate said merger?’

‘Donna—‘

‘It’s either this, or I’m using your card to buy that new pair of Pradas I’ve had my eyes on for thirteen hours and forty-three minutes already.’

‘…I initiated, he instigated. But it was just that—just a kiss. A few kisses. Nothing more, so hold off on writing your highly erotic, x-rated, forbidden office romance novel.’

‘Please, I had that finished two weeks after Mike started.’ She moved away from him, sitting back down at her desk and swivelling to face, grinning. ‘I take it this evening will be spent in the company of your new…future name partner? Are you going to make him your famous spicy chicken soup remedy to make him better?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘You’re loving this, aren’t you?’

‘God yes. I’ve been deprived of the homoerotic sexual tension between you two for a full working day, and I’m not built for going cold turkey.’

Harvey let out a low chuckle. She was incorrigible.

Quickly gathering what he needed from his office, Harvey made to walk back down the corridor, then suddenly stopped and turned back to Donna’s desk. With her eyes on his hands, he dipped one of them into the pocket containing his wallet, and produced his credit card between two long fingers. ‘Go. Get your Prada fix. Don’t tell me how much it costs.’

‘Ooh, playing a dangerous game…my fix could run up to the region of two bags, and an outfit to go with the aforementioned shoes.’

‘Do your worst.’

‘What’s this boundless generosity with your American Express card for?’

Silently vowing never to tell her about the voice of reason that she had been inside his own head, he simply smirked and shrugged. ’Let’s just say…Donna really does know everything. And you’re a little late on the soup—I made it for him yesterday.’

‘…Name partner, Harvey. He’s going to be one someday, and I don’t mean at the firm.’

He said nothing as he walked away, but he already knew Donna knew the answer that had been on his lips: _‘I really hope so.’_

**Author's Note:**

> There's probably mistakes in there somewhere. But oh well!
> 
> Also I have no idea what the title is about. But the prompt mentioned chicken soup, and Harvey does serve Mike chicken soup, so...


End file.
